


Plot Twist

by Elizabeth Watson-Holmes (edye327)



Series: Feel This Magic [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Date, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, brief hint at mollstrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1828906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edye327/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Watson-Holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "If You Must Know, I Have A Date."</p><p>John and Sherlock go on a date, and Lestrade and Sally find out about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plot Twist

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! So, you all requested a sequel, so I wrote it, and here it is.

_Friday 18:45_

“Finally!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “That will be quite enough, thank you, Angelo.”

“I knew it - I _knew_ from the first moment that you set foot in my restaurant -”

“Yes, thank you very much,” Sherlock said emphatically, making a shooing motion with his hand. “John and I -”

“- I suppose, if we were to give credit, _I_ am the true matchmaker here - it was the romantic candle, wasn’t it? Of _course_ it was! I am _so_ happy for you -”

“Cheers,” John said, smiling at Angelo. “And thanks.”

“And _you!_ ” Angelo pointed exuberantly at him. “ _You_ are the lucky one, eh? Kept me out of prison, Sherlock Holmes did.”

“ _You still went to prison,”_ Sherlock reminded through gritted teeth.

“Ah, well.” Angelo put his hands on his hips and sighed happily. “You can’t have everything in life, can you?”

“I don’t know,” said John lightly, fixing Sherlock with a look, “I think you can.” _Actually, I’ve got everything in life, and it’s sitting right across from me._

Sherlock turned faintly pink, and his fingers twitched oddly, as if resisting the urge to reach out and touch John. Which John would not have minded. Except Angelo was still standing there beaming, and his enthusiasm was getting a bit creepy.

“I’ll just have a water for now, thanks,” said John pointedly. 

“Anything for Sherlock’s young man, anything at all!” Angelo flung his arms out in a welcoming manner. 

“In that case, I think we’ll start with the candle,” said John. “This is, after all, a proper date,” and that got all three men grinning like idiots.

+

_19:45_

“I apologize for Angelo’s... ebullience,” said Sherlock as they walked down the street.

“What?” John was distracted by the fact that Sherlock had conspicuously left the gloves off tonight, and that his bare and intensely attractive hand (could a hand even _be_ intensely attractive? Well, this one was) was dangling less than two inches from John’s own.

“He was a little bit happy. Quite unnerving. I do hope it didn’t throw you off.”

“Aren’t you?” asked John, quirking his head at Sherlock, who slowed his pace to face John.

“Aren’t I what?” 

“A little bit happy.”

Sherlock gazed at him for a moment, seemingly transfixed, and then suddenly hooked his pinky slowly, shyly, around John’s. “Ridiculously,” he said in a baritone that made John weak at the knees like in all those silly romance films he’d been forced to tolerate on dates over the years.

“Well, go on then,” said John impishly. “I’m waiting.”

Sherlock looked alarmed. “For what? Am I doing something wrong?”

“Oh, for - you _do_ know how to hold hands the right way, don’t you?”

“I - I wasn’t quite certain of your intentions or feelings or wishes or - well.” John interlaced his fingers with Sherlock, and damned if he didn’t feel butterflies in his stomach. He was a fucking teenage girl with an uncontrollable crush on this mad idiot, and that was going to have to be okay. _It’s all fine._ Sherlock finished, “I suppose that answers the question of interest.”

John couldn’t help but giggle, and Sherlock stared at him like he was the most brilliant thing in the world, and eventually John nudged Sherlock, asking, “D’you fancy pudding? There’s a dessert place down the road.”

“Oh. I...”

“It’s okay,” said John hurriedly, “we can just go home, if you’d like.”

“No, I just... I’m very content with our current circumstances, and.” Sherlock gave John’s hand an experimental squeeze. “And.” He cleared his throat.

“And what? You do realize that we’ll still be able to hold hands if we start walking again, right?”

Sherlock looked a bit surprised at this revelation. “Ah. Yes, of course, don’t be obvious. I’m not that obtuse. Really, John.”

“Sure,” said John, tugging him along. “Come on.”

+

_20:00_

Lestrade was really, really peeved about this case. They’d convicted Phil Brown of the homicide, sure, but with such insufficient evidence that Lestrade had looked like an absolute fool, stammering and stuttering and reciting rudimentary deductions that any idiot could make just from looking at blood and fingerprints.

A nice thick slice of chocolate cake would most certainly rub aloe on the metaphorical burn, and Lestrade was just sitting down with a fancy silver fork when the door next to his table opened. He barely paid the couple any heed until he heard,

“...I’m sure Gavin missed the bit about the toenails, but of course one can only -”

It was Sherlock and his date. Lestrade nearly broke his neck doing a double-take, but his excitement waned slightly when he saw that it was only John. “Oi!” They turned around. Lestrade glared at Sherlock. “This is what counts as a date, then?” he asked, miffed. “Grabbing a bite to eat with your flatmate? You know, you could have done that any time, and here I was thinking there was something _romantic,_ which I now realize was utterly -”

John cleared his throat, and Lestrade took a solid ten seconds to process the fact that although they were no closer than usual - he realized now that it was a bit strange that Sherlock always seemed to hover so near, shoulders touching, to his partner, but then again Sherlock was so strange in so many more noticeable ways that unusually frequent physical contact didn’t seem out of place - they were definitely, _definitely_ holding hands.

Sherlock smirked. “Plot twist,” he said.

Lestrade leaned back in his chair weakly, crossing his arms and pushing the plate away. “Just... just - when did this - _what?”_

“This is John Watson,” said Sherlock, slipping an arm protectively round John, “and he is my date.”

“You’re... just hold on a mo -” Lestrade rubbed a hand across his face several times, trying to sort this newest development out in his head. “You two? You’re...?”

“Homosexual, yes. Well, speaking for myself. John?”

“Er...” John was peering at Lestrade in mingled sympathy and concern. “I, um.”

“No, no, listen.” Lestrade sucked in a breath. “You two are... first of all, I’m happy for you, of course. That’s - this is awkward. Okay. Whew.” Sherlock went to open his mouth and deliver a stream of disparaging comments, but John elbowed him. “Right. How long has this...?”

“I don’t know -” started John, as Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “Since we met,” and John sort of melted again and concurred, “Yeah, since then.”

“But this was - is - your first date?”

“Evidently.”

“Ah.” Lestrade paused. “Then why didn’t you do anything before?”

“There’s the question of the day,” said John wryly.

“You’re really that daft, are you?” Lestrade said, turning on Sherlock. “If you just - you could’ve _told_ me, for one, and I -”

“What,” sneered Sherlock, “you would’ve given me your expert love advice? You’re one to talk, I’ve seen the way you look at Molly Hooper and believe you me -”

“Well, _I’ve_ seen the way you look at _John,_ ” Lestrade cut in, which was really a completely lame comeback, if it could be considered that at all, but John couldn’t help feeling a bit emotional. It had been _ages_ since someone “looked” at him a certain way, and the mere thought of being special to someone - particularly someone of Sherlock’s caliber - was enough to make his chest nearly explode with happiness.

“Right, well, we should get going,” John said, steering Sherlock towards the counter. “See you later.” He turned to Sherlock as they walked off and mused, “All things considered, that wasn’t too bad of a reaction.”

“I am... very glad to have had that encounter,” Sherlock confessed.

“Why?”

“Because I could finally show people that you...” _Are mine._ “That you and I are...” _In love._ He began to panic slightly. “What I’m trying to say, John, is that -”

“Shut up,” said John, and quickly, without really thinking at all, pecked Sherlock on the cheek. It was a very chaste kiss, but also very domestic, and John thought the prospect of getting to do that all the time now whenever the impulse struck was splendid. Color rose high on Sherlock’s cheekbones at that, and John couldn’t resist doing it again, more deliberately this time, before stepping up to the counter. “What do you want?”

+

_21:00_

Their “short walk” turned out to last close to an hour, in which Sherlock took ten minutes trying to muster up the courage to hold John’s hand again, and John laughed at Sherlock when he nearly walked into a lamppost. All in all, it was a lovely time.

“You must know that I’m new to this,” Sherlock said as they rounded the corner towards Baker Street.

“To what?”

“This... affair.”

“Okay, first off, we are _not_ an affair.”

“The impermanence of the word’s connotation is undesirable to me,” Sherlock conceded, “but as we have yet to execute what my mother seems to consider ‘the Talk,’ I want to make quite clear that I... I desperately hope that this is not merely an affair. To you. Because it isn’t. To me.” He frowned, as though puzzled by this sudden insight.

“Hey, it’s fine. Good. Good. It’s all fine.”

“That’s what you said on our first date.”

John giggled (he never thought he’d be the type to giggle) (but Sherlock seemed to change everything) (in fact, Sherlock definitely changed everything) and said, “Aha! So it _was_ a date! I knew it!”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “You may have noticed that never once did I deny or attempt to correct Angelo’s assumption. _You_ did, but I did not.”

John grimaced. “Okay, yeah. You’re right.”

Sherlock smirked. “I always am.”

“Oh, I don’t know about _that_. Not always,” said John.

Sherlock gave a disdainful sniff. “Please.”

“Alright, let’s test you. What am I going to do now?”

“Excuse me?”

“Deduce, Sherlock. Look the shape of my fingernails or something. Should be easy, for someone who’s _always_ right.”

“Fine,” said Sherlock, taking the challenge. He scrutinized John, narrowing his eyes as he took inventory of every muscle, every blink, every movement. “Stupid,” he said softly.

“Come again?”

“That’s ridiculous. You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t what?”

Sherlock had already begun striding down the sidewalk. “Wouldn’t do that.”

John trotted after him. “Wouldn’t do what?”

“You wouldn’t kiss me,” said Sherlock, sounding heartbreakingly despondent. Was he really that clueless? “I appreciate -”

“Stop it, you utter cock,” said John, and caught Sherlock’s wrists, bringing them to his hips. Sherlock froze, taking little shallow breaths, but didn’t let go. His eyes were shining with something John hadn’t seen before, and the intensity of his gaze had John transfixed, spellbound, captivated. “That’s better,” said John, reaching up to bury a hand in those black curls, which he’d wanted to do pretty much since their first meeting. He brought the other to Sherlock’s neck and slowly, because Sherlock appeared to be shaking slightly, moved his face closer, until their foreheads were touching gently.

“John,” whispered Sherlock, and when he ran a tongue nervously across his devastatingly gorgeous lips, John really couldn’t take it any longer, and kissed him, and good _lord_ it was good.

Sherlock, for his seeming (though never confirmed) lack of experience in this area, was ridiculously talented at snogging, and part of John wanted to sit back and let him work his magic, because he was gathering John against him with one palm flat on the small of John’s back, unconsciously rubbing small, soothing circles, and the other palm was cupping John’s chin, thumb caressing his jawbone. 

“Jesus Christ,” murmured John as Sherlock’s tongue decided to get involved. They were slow, deep, possessive and impossibly tender kisses, and John was prepared to melt into the ground.

Except then three emergency vehicles came by, sirens screaming, and that rather ruined the moment as John started and they jumped away from each other.

When the parade of distractions had passed, John looked up at Sherlock, who was still gazing at him like he was the world; John himself probably looked horribly besotted because, well, he was.

“Always right,” said Sherlock triumphantly.

“ _Sometimes_ right,” John corrected, and hesitantly removed his hand from Sherlock’s chest.

“That was...”

“I know,” and John’s heart was beating like a hummingbird’s and his stomach was doing butterflies and he definitely identified a lot with a twelve-year-old girl fangirling over a godlike celebrity, although this particular man was... well, he was pretty godlike, but John would never say that out loud. Instead, he gave a mischievous grin and asked, “So, your place or mine?”

+

_Saturday 11:00_

"John Watson." Lestrade paused, shooting Sally a heavily significant look that went right over her head.

"Yeah, so?" she said, crossing her arms.

"He's - that's him."

She eyed him suspiciously. "That's... who?"

Again, with that look.

"Greg? You okay?"

He groaned in frustration. "John Watson was Sherlock's bloody date!"

Sally gaped at him. "No," she finally said, chuckling and turning back towards the copying room. "Nah, you're joking."

"I'm actually not," said Lestrade, following her. "I was getting dessert after the Brown case and they walked in holding hands and I..." He ran a hand through his hair. "I can't say as I'm shocked, but it was a bit of a surprise, that."

"No, you're lying," said Sally firmly.

"Come on, think about it," Lestrade said, "just think about it - the way they acted at crime scenes, how Sherlock looked when John entered the room and how John defended Sherlock at all costs, and they always went on all those ridiculous adventures together, the mental bastards."

Sally made a sort of strangled noise as it (reluctantly and very, very resentfully) sunk in. "Fine," she said shortly. "I warned him. John. Told him to stay away from the freak."

"Well, he clearly didn't listen," replied Lestrade, and grinned despite himself. Sally glared at him. “Oh, come now. Can't you be happy for them?"

"I..." Sally, acute as she believed herself to be, was struggling mightily to wrap her head around this one. "They're..."

"Together, yeah."

"And they're not..."

"Faking it? No."

"And you're..."

"Extremely sure."

"Oh." She stabbed the key code in and the xerox machine started whirring as she leaned against the table, arms crossed defiantly. "Well."

"Are you _mad_ about this?"

"I just hope they're happy."

"That sounds intimidating."

"Not intimidating, no! I think they're a.... they're really something."

"What's _that_ mean?"

Sally sighed and inserted a ream of paper, slamming the drawer shut with a bit more force than necessary. "If Sherlock was to... be with someone, then I think John is the only one who he could be with. And who would be with him. And vice versa. Come to that, I guess the signs were there." She wrinkled up her nose.

"Yeah, yeah," said Lestrade, and puffed out a breath. "This'll be interesting."

"What d'you mean?"

He held up his mobile. "Just got a text. Apparent suicide, but room for doubt. We need Sherlock." He was halfway out the room when he added, "And John." And wouldn't this be interesting, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm having way too much fun writing these ficlets. I could possibly write a sequel, depending on interest.


End file.
